Sardines Might Fly

By Alannah Foley

Could air travel GET any worse?

Fancy flying in a tin can to the other side of the world and suffering the horrors of stinky passengers, kids with the power to split eardrums at fifty paces, backed-up restroom queues, and faulty coffee machines that can short-circuit the plane's electrics?

Neither does the author.

Unfortunately, these are just some of the delights frequently experienced on a long-haul flight. And when you're packed in tight like sardines for over twenty hours, the trip from A to B can feel more like an epic voyage from A to a distant Z.

Join the author as she takes off from England on a 'flying adventure' to Australia and back in this short companion read to Up a Creek Down Under.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Pyjama Writer Publishing
• Release date: Oct 26, 2018
• ISBN: 9780463167472

Alannah Foley

Alannah Foley... aka The Pyjama WriterAuthor of mysteries, travel tales, fiction, and other maverick titles that won't fall in line...Raised in the UK, Alannah lived in her Aussie birthplace for five years in her twenties, where mozzies regularly used her for target practice. She managed to return to Old Blighty devoid of shark or snake bite, however, and currently lives in picturesque Cornwall with her cycling-obsessed partner.Alannah is a multi-genre author who has published mysteries & other works of fiction as well as travel tales about her capers in a campervan and adventures Down Under. She also enjoys writing humorous portraits of life (some still in the pot!).When she's not writing, Alannah likes to hit the trails on her bike, take walks in nature, and go kayaking – basically, anything that will get her butt out of the chair for a while that doesn't involve going to a sweaty old gym.Get the author's pester-free newsletter and be the first to hear about upcoming titles, early discounts on new releases, and a few other goodies exclusive to her VIP Readers Group. Simply visit bit.ly/PJW-Newsletter to sign up.To find out more about the author & her work, visit her website at www.thePyjamaWriter.com.

Book preview

A Quick Note on Lingo

This work is written in British English, so a few words might be different for American readers—eg aeroplane = airplane, toilet/loo = bathroom/restroom, torch = flashlight, bin = trash, etc.

PART 1—OUTWARD JOURNEY

Image: Plane taking off

Sometimes the road less traveled is less traveled for a reason.

American comedian Jerry Seinfeld

London to Singapore

Image: Security man

They won't let me through security until I remove the bullets from my Word document.

Rich Tennant cartoon

Cow brains, sedated tiger, seal's head, stuffed armadillo… No, I'm not brainstorming cool names for an alternative rock band, I'm listing just four of the 'must have' items people have tried smuggling through airport customs in years gone by. Apparently, cow brains are a delicacy in Egypt, but don't let me spoil your fun—I'll leave you to find out in your own time what possessed someone to sneak the others through.

To be honest, when I read about bizarre things like this, I have to wonder whether these contraband criminals are first-timers who did a sloppy job and got caught—because career smugglers would surely know the importance of cunningly concealing their wares. Take drug-runners, for instance. Any worth their salt will have watched enough TV cop shows by now to realise that security will be onto them quicker than a terrier on heat if they try sneaking cocaine through in casks of coffee. That's old hat.

These days, you've got to get creative—and even then, you might get rumbled (and so you should—naughty illegal smugglers!). Some of the most bizarre customs finds include money rolled up and stuffed into the middle of patisseries, marijuana fashioned into the shape of a donkey, cigarettes sown inside a soccer ball, Ecstasy pills hidden in a Mr Potato Head, and a knife stashed inside an enchilada. Cocaine smugglers seem to be the most imaginative (and most motivated) of all because the drug has been found stowed inside breast implants, mini Easter eggs, a wooden door, avocadoes, dead bugs, and clam shells which were glued shut. Methamphetamine has also been found inside a burrito, as well as moulded into a bar then coated with chocolate (as if chocolate isn't already addictive enough!).

Of course, I had no interest in trying to slip anything whatsoever through customs when I arrived at London Heathrow with my partner Steve. Not because I was a goody-two-shoes, but because anything that might provoke the wrath of the security guards and delay us getting our flight to Australia was to be avoided at all costs—as was being ushered off for one of those awful body cavity searches you hear about. You know… A darkened room… A pair of surgical gloves snapped on… And a mean-faced officer trying to shove a fist into an area the size of a Smarties tube... Not my idea of flying at all—and they conveniently miss out that side of things in those flight adverts, don't they? All you get there are shots of soothing, seamless air travel and attractive hostesses who dote on you by gently reclining your seat and serving up glasses of bubbly with an irresistible, pearly smile. Latex gloves are nowhere to be seen.

After surviving the rigours of passport control, customs, and a five-hour train ride to London, we were eager to sit down and flake out. And so, with high expectation, we followed the signs to the lounge. Lounge! Aaaaah! Such a wonderfully warm word. It conjures images of sofas, crackling fires, tartan slippers and a cosy blanket. Somewhere welcoming that provides succour for the weary soul.

Sadly, in combination with the word 'airport', it takes on a whole new meaning and only leads to disappointment. For, as we neared the airport lounge, all we could see were rows of plastic seats and the hustle and bustle of travellers. Talk about an abuse of the English language! 'Lounge', my arse! The seating was probably easy to clean and low maintenance, sure, but it lacked that one vital quality distance travellers seek: comfort.

We still had a few hours to wait until check-in for our flight, and I knew that if I sat on one of those hard plastic seats the whole time, I'd soon be heading for a nasty bout of piles—not the best predicament to find yourself in at the best of times, let alone when you're about to board a plane, where there will be relentless pressure from the queue outside the lavatory door to get the job done and make yourself scarce as quickly as possible.

It was obvious that this plastic seating had been designed with down-and-outs in mind. Basically, if they made it too comfortable, the airport would probably be inundated with tramps bedding down for the night (or day). Unfortunately, it also meant that holidaymakers couldn't get their head down if they were tired after travelling to London, or if their flight was delayed several hours.

Right over the other side was a wall of windows, and there I spied a section of seats with a bit of padding that looked far more welcoming. That's more like it! I thought, gravitating towards it. We installed ourselves, along with our bags, and sat facing the windows that overlooked the hangars. That would keep Steve happy—looking at planes was just the sort of thing he could geek out on for the next few hours, and it would leave me free to type some writing ideas onto my laptop that had been buzzing round my brain since we hit the airport.

First things first, though—we were desperate for a drink. So I trundled off and returned with tea for two. As I sat down and took a sip, I grumbled to poor Steve about having to fork out megabucks for the drinks. What really got my goat, though, was that we'd brought along our own drinks, but had to ditch them at security.

"Really? We couldn't take a small bottle of water through?" I continued to gripe. We were even forced to get rid of some milk we had left over after our train journey. Somehow, we just couldn't bring ourselves to throw it away in the bins provided, so instead, we stood there downing the liquids. God knows what the security guy must've thought of us.

All these rules seemed a bit extreme to me. We had only a small amount of milk in the container—less than 100ml, the amount we were currently allowed to take through. Trouble was, it was in a 200ml bottle—and that's over 100ml, so it's a no-no.

At the time, I didn't realise the reasons why security hackles were raised so much over what seemed like 'a bit of water and milk'. But according to an article in the Independent, a 'Liquid Bomb Plot' was uncovered back in 2006 in which various liquid ingredients were planned to be stashed in soft drinks bottles, and these could be assembled once on board a plane to make explosive devices.

To airport security, then, our innocent-looking bottles of water or milk might actually be some heinous bomb-making ingredient.

Confusingly, nursing mothers are allowed to bring milk through for their baby—although it does have to be tasted first to make sure it's the real deal. Obviously, this begs the question: do customs have a qualified taster, as you would for wine—a 'milk connoisseur', if you will, who can detect the subtle differences between breast milk, baby formula and chemicals used in bomb-making?

Incidentally, on the topic of mothers' milk, NBC News once reported that a female pilot was sacked for using a breast pump at work. According to the article, The airline defended its action, saying it did not object to the pilot using a breast pump in principle, but did object when she was simultaneously flying the airplane. Hmm… But then again, they do say that women are better at multi-tasking. In her defence, the reporter added, "airlines don't usually provide adequate leaves of